


The Night In Your Eyes

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Betrayal, Demonic Possession, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Sam Has Powers, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-13
Updated: 2006-05-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:37:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You always hurt the ones you love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emella/gifts).



> _What will happen will happen. There is time for miracles until there is no time, but time has no end. –Dean Koontz, "Velocity"_

When it was over, Dean cried. Sam understood.

Later, he would realize that was his first mistake, thinking he understood.

His second mistake was thinking it was over.

***

The thing about the beginning is that it's very rarely recognizable as such. There's your birth and your death and everything in between is just sort of a mish-mash of times and places and people with very few ways to separate one thing from another.

But the thing about beginnings is that they _can_ be seen, if only in retrospect.

When Sam thinks about it, he thinks it all began with the ocean.

***

"Sam…"

Sam snaps awake at the first slurring mumble of Dean's voice, his feet twitching off the dinette chair he was using as a footstool and onto the floor with a thump. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and launches himself out of the tired, flowered armchair to go to the bed.

Dean thrashes, stinking and damp with fear-sweat, his eyes flinching and rolling behind closed lids. _"Sam-- Don't let them…don't let him…"_

Sam settles on the bed's edge lightly. His stomach feels sour and he's perfectly aware of how his hand trembles as he reaches out to touch Dean. "Dean," he murmurs. _It's him. It's him. He'll open his eyes and you'll see._

_"Sam—"_ The desperation in Dean's voice razors through him, bringing up the bile surge of helplessness that's sat in his throat for the past four weeks. _"Sam, it's_ in _me…"_

Sam shudders, suddenly cold despite the heat going full blast. He reaches out and shakes Dean, rougher than he intends. "Dean," he says. _"Dean."_

***

"I'm sorry," Sam says, as he picks his way across the pea gravel. "This was a complete waste of time."

Dean doesn't answer. He's looking out at the dreary gray-green of the waves, head cocked a little to one side. Sam can't see his face.

"Dean?" he asks, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder as soon as he's close enough to do so.

"Huh?" The face Dean turns to him is blank, like Dean is light-years away. He's got something in his hand, hidden, but when Dean's thumb roves over it, Sam sees a ridged curve sort of like a seashell and a gleam like glass.

"Ground control to Major Tom," Sam waves a hand in front of Dean's face. "I was saying this is a waste of time."

"Oh." Dean shrugs deeper into his coat. Sam doesn't blame him; the wind's coming off the water, cold and biting, slicing through his hoodie and jacket like they're made of tissue. "Yeah."

"You didn't find anything either?" He doesn't know why he's pushing; Dean withholds a lot, but never about a hunt. He rubs his thumb hard into the point where his eyebrow meets his nose, wondering if he's just over tired. He's felt uneasy and jittery ever since the first vision came to him, four days ago.

"No." Dean shakes his head, then gives Sam a grin, bright and wicked. "S'not even any hot girls out. We should've come in swimsuit season."

Sam struggles with annoyance and an odd sense of relief. "Yeah, I'll keep that in mind, the next time my brain splits open with one of these things."

Dean shrugs and spreads his hands. "I'm just saying. Coulda made it worth my while."

"Yeah, fuck you too," Sam retorts, shivering. "C'mon, let's go back to the car."

Dean throws his arm around Sam's shoulders. "Y'know, Sam, if you'd invest in some _real_ clothes, instead of pretending everywhere is still California, maybe you wouldn't be freezing your ass off now. We have this stuff called 'weather' in the rest of the country."

"There's weather in California," Sam argues, allowing himself to be frog-marched along. He's never admit it, but he's a lot warmer just pressed in against Dean's side. "Hey," he nods towards whatever Dean's got clasped in his off hand. "What you got there?"

Dean looks down at his hand without opening his fingers. His thumb still arcs over the barely seen glassy curve ceaselessly before he tucks it into his jacket pocket. "Nothing." Dean shrugs. "Souvenir."

Sam looks around at the ugly dead spit of land, too rocky and inhospitable to even be really called a beach. "Jeez, Dean…what the hell would you want to remember about here?"

***

Dean lurches awake and Sam scoots back fast to avoid being brained. He can't help it; his hand darts briefly towards the knife strapped to his forearm, but he doesn't flick the blade free, trembling with tension.

"Dean?" he asks and hates it when his body's quaver is repeated in his voice.

Dean coughs, a wet, ugly sound like seawater trapped in his lungs, his entire body bowing. "Yeah," he gasps, when it's over. "Still here. Still me." He reaches out and pats Sam's knee absently, before falling back to the mattress.

Sam doesn't say anything, just claps Dean once on the shoulder and gets up. The springs creak tiredly with the movement and Sam stands there a moment, just looking.

"Was I dreaming?" The apartment is never really dark, perpetually twilit by the rusty orange of the neon sign just outside the window. In that sanguine light, Sam sees Dean's eyes are closed again.

Sam sighs, wanting very much to unbend from this perpetual, exhausting vigilance and at the same time absolutely terrified of relaxing for even a moment. _It's gone,_ he thinks, a repetition like the telling over of a rosary's decades. _It's gone and it's not coming back._ "Yeah," Sam says, hoarse this time but steadier. "You don't remember?"

Dean curls up a little tighter. "No," he answers finally, just before the silence hits the breaking point.

Sam can't even tell anymore, if that's the truth or a lie.

***

"I was thinking maybe we could hang around for a while," Dean says, cautiously sniffing one of his T-shirts before throwing it into the pile of 'to be washed'. "Town's cheap, car could use some repairs that will take more than the couple hours I usually have to give it and I think we could use a break."

"Really?" Sam should be sorting through his own clothes. He's familiar with Dean's 'if it's not in the pile by the time _I'm_ done sorting it's not fucking getting washed' scattershot approach to their laundry and he's about out of underwear and socks, but he can't really summon the energy to crawl out of the armchair. His head and shoulders hurt like someone's been beating him with an iron bar and the world's taken on the glassy-clear paleness of too little sleep over too many days.

"No, Sam, I just enjoy torturing you." Dean sighs. Then he pauses. "Wait. That part is true."

"Ass." Sam closes his eyes and puts his head back. For a while, he's soothed by the soft creak and slur of Dean's movements, familiar and quiet. Later though _(how much later?)_ , somewhere in the liminal space between sleeping and wakefulness, he becomes aware that the noise has stopped and Dean is standing near him.

Sam cracks his eyes unwillingly. They feel dusty and sore. "What?"

Dean is standing over him. His eyes are dark and his expression is set somewhere between thoughtful and broody—not that there's a real thick line there for Dean anyway. Dean jerks his head. "Sit up."

Sam is curious, but he's also logy and disinclined to get into yet another bitch-fest with Dean. He sighs heavily, but he scoots forward in the chair. The gesture radiates pain through his skull, down his neck and all the way into his fingers. His teeth try and catch on it, but the whimper forces its way out of him anyway. He shuts his eyes again, head falling forward on his neck.

At once, Dean is sliding behind him in the chair—which is just nowhere _near_ big enough for this—and Dean's fingers are settling on his skin, pressing and digging into knotted muscles. Sam makes another noise, half between groan and moan. He's forgotten how good Dean is at this. Correction—he's worked very hard to forget how good Dean is at this.

"Tell me about your vision," Dean says, his voice low and lulling as the magic of his fingers over Sam's temples and scalp.

"Oh God, Dean…do we have to do this now? There was nothing there, I feel stupid…now can we please move on?"

"Sam…" Dean works a particularly evil and sore spot with the ball of his thumb. "How often have your visions ever been wrong? Tell me what you saw. Please."

Sam sighs. "It was…all in pieces," he says—as he has the last half-dozen times, he reminds himself, a hot flash of pain/irritation surging through his temples. He bends his head, breath catching.

"Relax," Dean instructs in that same quiet monotone. "Don't fuck up my good works here. I'm not going to do this again."

"I…there was water. I was under the water and it…it tasted like salt. Salt and…something else."

"What else?"

"I don't know. Something…strange. Bitter."

"Take your shirt off." Dean taps Sam's shoulder lightly. His mind on the puzzle of the images behind his eyes, Sam complies, stripping off his flannel and draping it over the armrest. "T-shirt too." Dean's fingers tangle in the hem of Sam's tee, hoisting it a couple inches until Sam grabs it and doffs it over his head. Dean starts massaging Sam's shoulders, fingertips and thumbs making tiny repetitive circles that bite into the knots of tension and gradually tease them apart.

It's a little chilly in the room—they haven't turned the heat up and the sun's going down—and Sam's skin is covered in goose bumps, but he still feels heated from his core as Dean's hands roam over him. Some of it is simple hunger for touch, he recognizes. Jess had been one of the most tactile people he'd ever met and she'd totally overwhelmed him in small constant touches—his shoulder when she stood next to him, hip against his arm; her feet in his lap when they'd watch TV; her hand in his back pocket when they'd walk down the street. Life after her is a lot like being a recovering alcoholic; you can deal with the absence, but the craving never quite goes away.

The other part of it is the reason Sam stopped letting Dean touch him in the first place.

***

"You should sleep," Sam says finally, resuming his seat in the armchair even though every bone of his body cries in protest. His knee pops as he stretches his legs out on the dinette chair.

"All I do is sleep," Dean complains though his inflection doesn't change.

"No," Sam corrects, "all you do is _not_ sleep. Dean—you're exhausted."

"So are you." Dean sighs, frustrated, and rolls onto his back. "Sam, you've gotta sleep some time."

"I sleep," Sam says mildly. He shifts in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, or one that is marginally less numbing to his ass.

"Yeah. Sure you do."

They say nothing then, the silence long and thick. There's a quality to Winchester silence, Sam thinks; heavier than normal, and full of more edges.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I… I lied to you." There are different levels to Dean's different monotones, as well; this is the one he uses when he's badly hurt and talking his way around the pain, placing it at a distance. "About…about remembering."

Sam's breath goes out of him. When he inhales again, it feels like the first breath ever. "I know," he answers.

***

"There's a light," Sam says. "No. There's rocks, like, an outcrop of rocks and in the rocks, there's all this light. Sickly. Greeeeen…." The last word draws out into another soft groan as Dean's thumbs press-glide up the line of Sam's spine, heavy brushstrokes.

"And then?" Dean prompts, leaning forward into Sam. His breath ghosts over Sam's neck and past his ear, making Sam shudder.

"I see… I see the beach, the beach we were at today. I see stars. And I see—I smell blood." Sam shivers again, for different reasons this time. "So much blood. And…then it all goes dark."

"Dark?" Dean repeats. Sam comes back to himself to realize that Dean's hands are softer against him, gentler, more caressing than massaging. He also realizes that he's achingly, painfully hard.

"Dean—" His voice stammers over the single syllable. Like it was a signal, Dean's hands curve around Sam's waist, across his stomach. He pulls Sam back against him and Sam is suddenly, outrageously aware of Dean's body; the elastic heat of his skin, the wiry interplay of muscle, the calm tide of Dean's breath.

Dean's voice is very rough and very deep when he says, "What?" He tweaks Sam's nipples, both at the same time, and Sam arches against him, gasping. "You gonna tell me you don't want this?"

"Dean-- Dean, please…" He doesn't know what he means by that. He doesn't know what he wants anymore. They haven't… They've never… Sam had never thought…

"Oh," Dean says dangerously, "We're just getting started, little brother."

***

"You knew?"

Dean sits up in the bed and he sounds so surprised, Sam laughs. "Of course I did. Hello? Psychic. Or something."

"You…" Dean falters, looks down at the blanket, picking at the nap with chewed and bleeding fingernails. "You never said."

"No," Sam agrees, scratching through his hair tiredly. "I never did."

"You were testing me?"

"Wouldn't you? If it was me?"

"Of course I would. I just didn't think _you'd_ think of it." It's a pale imitation of Dean's usual sarcasm, but he's trying and just that fact makes Sam feel a little lighter under a pressure he'd only subliminally been aware of. "Color me fucking impressed."

"Well, you know I only live for your approval, Dean," Sam remarks sarcastically, "so thanks."

Another block of silence, this one less charged than the last.

"When?" Dean asks suddenly. "When did you know? That it wasn't me?"

Sam smiles again, but this time it's not amused at all. He sorts through the things he wants to say, the things it's safe to say, the things he can. Finally, he gets up from the chair and goes to the bed a second time. He has to be careful, not sure his legs will support him. He lies down next to Dean and says, "The minute he—it—hurt me."

***

"Dean…Dean, don't…"

"Shhh." Though his grip on Sam's wrists is crushing, bruising, the thrust-slide of his cock against Sam's ass is slow, teasing and languorous. "Want this…you. Wanted it for so long, waiting for you. Afraid. But I'm not afraid anymore, Sam. Because you want this too, don't you?"

"We can't. Oh God, Dean, we can't."

"Sure we can." Dean mouths the back of Sam's neck, sharp nipping kisses that trail across Sam's neck, around the curve of his ear and then finally Dean's pushing his tongue into Sam's mouth from the side, leisurely fucking in and out of Sam's lips. "We're more than halfway there already," he murmurs. Then the blunt head of his cock is pressing wetly against Sam, but not nearly wetly enough and Sam is panicking, trying to pry his wrists loose, trying to squirm away from that inevitable and unrelenting pressure.

"Please," Sam says again, though he's still not sure what exactly that _please_ means. "Please…"

"Sam…" Biting pressure against his throat, pain-pleasure in the form of sharp teeth and sucking tongue. "It'll be good, so good; I'm going to fuck you so deep and slow and it'll be good. You'll like it, I swear…"

Sam buries his face in the scratchy coverlet and leaves it unspoken that that's exactly what he's afraid of.

***

Dean stirs and Sam watches him turn his face away and then his body, shame radiating like heat. Sam's hand is unsteady and his throat aches like he's been stabbed, but he puts his hand on Dean's arm and feels the skin flinch away. Sam's fingers tighten over the muscle.

"I knew it wasn't you because it hurt me," Sam says again patiently, willing Dean to hear, to evaluate and weigh the meaningful silences. "But…"

"I hear him—it—him. Abbyndon," Dean cuts in. "I hear him all the time. I… It's not like you think. It's not… He wanted me. He wants me. I could feel what he felt. The pleasure. The love. He'd share it with me and then I'd feel it too. So…pure. It's like…it feels like love. It feels like he loves me." Dean's voice catches and under Sam's fingers, he starts to shake. Dean's voice is dry as sand and taut.

"It's not, though," Sam says. Four weeks. Four weeks since he'd freed Dean, and in all that time Dean had barely moved, barely spoken, barely eaten. Barely been alive, as if everything that made him _Dean_ had been sucked out with the evil essence that invaded him, leaving only an empty shell. Four weeks of wondering if he'd have served Dean better by just killing him, wondering if Dean was dying by inches anyway. "It's not love. Dean—"

_"Don't you think I_ know _that?"_ Dean—and Dean's voice—cracks and the void fills with the harsh clotted sound of tears. "God, the things he made me do. The things he wanted me to."

"He's gone, Dean." Sam bites his lip and curls closer into Dean's body, one hand rubbing over Dean's back.

"Don't," Dean says. "Don't touch me. You shouldn't… You should have let me die, Sam."

"That was never going to happen, Dean."

_"I raped you!"_

"Yes," Sam agreed wearily, though Dean wasn't the only one wracked by shivers. "And no."

"No?"

Sam levers Dean onto his back, puts his face right over Dean's, so the darkness can make no mistakes between them. "You're not the only one who lied, Dean."

***

It's not rape, that first time. It's rough and more than a little painful—before it blooms into an astonishing liquid pleasure that makes him cry out and beg—but it's not rape. Not when _Dean don't_ rapidly turns into _don't stop_. Not when Sam arches his back and lets Dean in, fucking himself back on Dean's cock harder and harder, tightening within himself to bring them both over the cresting edge and into the deeps.

Dean isn't the only one that's been waiting. Dean isn't the only one that's been wanting.

The thing about demons is that they don't deceive you—hurt you—with only lies. More often—far too often—they find it much more amusing to cut you to the bone with the truth.

So no, not rape the first time.

The second time, though. Yeah. That was rape.

***

"I didn't tell you everything," Sam admits. "About why we came. About my visions." A part of him wants to pull away from Dean, to curl up into his own tiny ball and protect these parts of himself that are still so gapingly vulnerable. Another part of him is afraid—that if he lets Dean go, doesn't wrap himself around Dean—Dean will get up and leave, never to return.

It's not like Sam doesn't deserve it; hasn't earned that or worse. So much worse.

"I don't understand."

"I knew. I saw the demon, in my head. And when you…when we…" Sam wets dry lips with his tongue, wishes he had some water to do the same with his aching throat. "I knew it wasn't you. Even the first time when… Before I dreamed, before it r…I knew it wasn't you."

Dean stiffens. Sam feels the realization go through Dean in a torture of a thousand cuts; swears he can feel/taste the moment they start to bleed. He did this. _He_ did this, and if either one of them should have died, it should have been Sam because he's hurt Dean so many times, but never like this. Never with his eyes wide open. Dean starts to pull away.

Sam wraps his arms, his legs around Dean, frantic. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Sam says over and over again, hiding his face in the space between Dean's pectorals. His throat is almost closed now, choked with grief and tears and ashes—the wreckage of all he'd dreamed and wanted. "I'm sorry…"

Finally, Dean stills again, breathing hard. His eyes are enormous; Sam can't tell if it's the dimness or shock. "Why?"

"Because I saw us too, in the vision. You and me. And I… I just wanted that _so much_ that I…"

"Were willing to fuck a demon wearing my skin like a coat." Dean finishes roughly.

Sam takes a breath, a thousand and one responses running through his mind like water. But in the end, it's all the same answer. "Yes."

"You…you _let_ that thing have me."

"No! I mean…" Sam tightens his grip on Dean again, even though Dean's made no other gesture of flight. "I thought I could stop it. Before it… I thought… I didn't think it would go this far. I didn't think it would be like this. I thought I could stop it before it got you." He swallows, bitter-salt. "By the time I found you on the beach, it was already too late. But I didn't mean…"

"And you never once— _once_ —thought to mention any of this to me?" Like with his embarrassment earlier, Dean now radiates heat, this time anger. It's not his usual anger, explosive and quick burning, and Sam doesn't—can't—contemplate what that means.

"How could I? You—the demon was right, Dean; we've been dancing around this for _years_. I didn't… Were you ever going to _tell_ me?"

"That I'm such a bent twist I want to fuck my own brother? Yeah, _that_ was a conversation I've been dying to have with you, Sammy boy."

"But I wanted you!" Sam insists. "I always wanted you."

"Funny way of showing it," Dean says dully, and his eyes slip closed again.

***

He hadn't had a lot of time to prepare. Certainly not for anything as elaborate as the Key of Solomon, which Dean would have seen and questioned. But as Dean so often tells him, Sam is nothing if not the Rodeo Wrangler of Research and there's more than one way to catch and hold a demon. For a little while, at least.

Sam's lip is bleeding. His whole mouth is bleeding and so are the shallow cuts—fingernail and knife—in his skin. He doesn't want to think about where else he's bleeding, particularly as the thing wearing Dean's skin thrusts in deeper. Dean's always been strong; in his skin, the demon is terrifyingly powerful, it's fingers grinding the bones of his wrists together. He doesn't want to move, hurt and sick in his heart. But he has to. Dean is counting on him.

_Never should have let it get this far_ , he thinks. _Should have run in the other direction the minute I had the vision._

But it's too late for all that. Now Sam can only try to claw his way out and hope he hasn't just destroyed everything in the process.

His sensitivity doesn’t extend to the perception of magic; when he murmurs the word that should— _will_ , he insists furiously—activate the ward chalked and hidden beneath the bed, he has to take it on faith that he did the ritual right, wrote the lines and curves of the Circle correctly.

And he must have, because when he turns his head, demon-Dean's eyes are open and blank, unseeing, the slackness of Dean's face making it look more like a mask than ever.

_Dean…I'm so sorry,_ Sam thinks, wincing and cringing as he slips from under that heavy weight and out of the bed. _I'm so sorry. But I'll fix it. Somehow I'll fix it._

He goes to Dean's jacket and pulls the 'souvenir' from the pocket. It looks like a seashell made of glass, cloudy and frosted. In the bottom, something like the fluid in a glo-stick gleams, faintly phosphorescent. Sam puts it on the table and then gets the Gideon Bible from the nightstand drawer and a stick of red chalk.

He draws a Circle on the fake wood around the shell, muttering the words of Ingathering as he does.

_I call you into this circle, by the power of my breath and spirit, by the power of the sun, moon and stars; I call you into this circle and bid you leave this place and time, never to return. I bid you to lay off the unwilling flesh you have stolen and return to the Nothing from which you came, by my true Name and that of my brother…_

Sam raises the Bible in both hands over his head and brings it down.

***

But it didn't end there. And it isn't over. And Sam has no one to blame but himself.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again and it's inadequate, so fucking inadequate, but he doesn't know what else he has to offer, because everything else he has left is already Dean's anyway. He lets Dean go and starts to slide away.

Dean's hands come up and grab Sam's shoulders; his eyes open. "You... This. You did this for me? So you could have me?"

"Yes." His voice stutters over the word.

"But you _left_ Sam. You left."

Sam shakes his head. "I left the life. I left hunting. If you…" He doesn't know really; _if_ is just too big a word and still not enough to encompass all the things he means by it.

"Is that why? Why you left?"

Another shake of his head and a rueful, sad smile. "No. I wanted to go to school. That just… made it easier to go."

"I wanted you."

Sam blinks hard and fast. He's not a chick; he's not going to bawl all over Dean just because Dean—the real Dean—just said something he's waited years to hear. "I didn't know."

Dean makes an ironic face. "Yeah, that was sort of the point."

"But if we… I mean, if we both wanted, why didn't we…?"

Dean looks at him, and Sam feels heat flush from his toes to his head. "Yeah. Well. Okay. But… I think we're well past that point now, aren't we?" He wonders if his voice sounds as hopeful as he thinks. He hopes not.

Dean's hands shift and move, urging Sam down to drape across him. Sam puts his cheek against Dean's collarbone and feels the slow rhythm of his heart, steady as the sea. "I don't know," Dean says. "I guess…I guess we are." There's a pause, but Sam knows Dean well enough to know there's more he's got to say and if he interrupts that door might close and never open again.

"I don't forgive you," Dean says finally. "I… I just can't. I think… I need some time, Sam. To figure it out. To figure us out."

_Us,_ Sam thinks, his heart beat speeding despite himself. _He said 'us'._ But what he says aloud is, "I know."

"I just… If I sleep, you'll be here, right? You won't leave me alone?"

"No," Sam agrees. _Never,_ his secret heart answers. "I won't leave you alone."

Dean sighs. "I'm so fucking tired."

Sam's eyes shut and he roves his hands over Dean's skin, trying to soothe that pain and exhaustion and grief by touch. Dean shivers and says nothing. "Go to sleep," Sam says finally. "I'll be here."

Slowly and by degrees, Dean relaxes under him, fading. Sam closes his eyes, though he knows he won't sleep, restless and high on worry and relief and a joyful gratitude that burns and sears across his mind like fireworks.

As he slips over the edge from waking to sleep, Dean twitches briefly and Sam hears him whisper, soft and longing, "Abbyndon…"

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in 2006, before the character of Abbadon was introduced. Any similarity of name is coincidental and possible an indication of my psychic powers. :)
> 
> Written for emella in the 2006 Supernatural Slash Fiction Angstathon. She requested non-con, h/c, amnesia, domesticity and nightmares.


End file.
